


Hottest You Can Get

by kdqt314 (kdobrole5)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I'm never happy with my titles but we can thank Vince Noir for this one, Nicky Clarke, between series' 1 and 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kdobrole5/pseuds/kdqt314
Summary: "You see that? Straighteners. Nicky Clarke. Hottest you can get. Fell asleep on them while I was pissed."
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Hottest You Can Get

For as long as he lives, Howard Moon will never forget the sound. A shriek, the approximate pitch and volume of a teakettle on to boil, jerks him out of his pleasant dreams and into what feels like a horror film. Vince, rolling off the bed and curling around himself, still howling in what surely has to be more than his standard drunken strop. The smell of something burning, and smoke rising from Vince’s bedspread. This situation demands a proper Man of Action.

_ Figure out why Vince’s bed is smoking.  _ Stepping around his best mate (who is now sobbing on the floor, what in God’s name has happened?), Howard gingerly shifts scorched sheets and the singed duvet to find hair straighteners, of all things. He rips the cord out of the wall with no regard to correct outlet protocol and tosses the straighteners into the corner of the room where they can't do any more damage. Howard has a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach now as he crouches beside Vince’s shuddering form. 

“Vince, you’ve got to let me see,” he insists, trying to infuse his voice with all the calm and authority he can muster. A horrible burned smell hangs in the air; Howard knows deep in his guts, even if he can’t acknowledge it yet, what must have happened. He pushes his panic down as far as he can, tries to ignore the awful shaking adrenaline that fills his limbs and his lungs with the desire to run as far and as fast as he can, away from this nightmare. Instead he tries again to reach out to his hysterical friend. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happened.” 

His focus sharpens when Vince gasps for breath, an enormous shuddering inhalation that sounds like it strains his ribs. “It hurts,” he whimpers on the exhalation, “Christ, Howard, please make it stop hurting.” He rolls to his back, trying to stretch out his body in a familiar fashion—in another circumstance, Howard might allow the sight to distract him in an altogether pleasant manner—but the routine movement is cut short by a full-body spasm and a heart-rending whine of pain. Howard gently lifts Vince’s arms to get a look at the damage. When he does, his eyes widen and his face blanches.

The long, thin burn glares starkly against the milk-white skin stretching over Vince’s right hipbone. Howard stares dumbly at it for a long moment, almost numb until he realizes that the burned smell is seared flesh. Then a rush of sour saliva fills his mouth and he has to swallow hard to avoid being sick. Can’t be sick now, Vince needs him to save the day. He feels himself falling back on old soothing nonsense phrases he’s uttered dozens of times for every occasion from a missed sale at TopShop to their impending death in the Arctic tundra to the Zooniverse closing.

“It’s gonna be all right, little man,” he repeats over and over, not sure where he can touch Vince that won’t hurt him but equally certain that this is not an injury that can be fixed with Anadin and triple-antibiotic ointment. “We’ve got to at least wrap you in a sheet or something before we go to A&E.”

“What?!” Vince’s voice is shrill with pain. “Just go get Naboo, you idiot! What good is a shaman for a flat-mate if you can’t ask him for first aid?” Howard winces at the sharp tone of voice directed his way, trying not to get defensive or take it personally that Vince seems to think he’s too thick to properly fix this unexpected disaster.

“He’s not in,” he reminds the smaller man, “He and Bollo left for the semiannual solar whatsit this afternoon, remember? They won’t be back for at least a day, maybe two. Depends on whether Bollo eats most of the hash cakes they baked this morning.” Inwardly Howard curses the timing—why is it that anytime they could really use Naboo’s help, he’s off on shaman business? —but gives it up as a bad job. Not like complaining will help them now. “We can’t leave this until Naboo comes home, can you stand?”

Not quite, it turns out. Together, the best they can do is get Vince to a semi-sitting position before he yelps, “Leave off, you big buffalo, you’re hurting me!” He tries to elbow Howard and his anxious, fluttering hands away, twists too hard, and exacerbates the burn wound. As he flops back to the floor choking on tears, Howard wonders whether it wouldn’t be better to call the professionals and save himself some of this headache. Surely, even a Good Samaritan such as himself knows when to throw in the towel?

His hand hovers hesitantly over Vince’s shoulder—hadn't he only just told Howard not to touch him? And really, when in their entire friendship had he ever said that to Howard, it was always always the other way round, Vince seeking out little ways to touch his friend while the Northerner snapped at him to keep his hands off. Maybe any touch at all is too painful for his little man right now. Howard’s decision is made for him though, when Vince’s head lifts to look pathetically at him and he sniffles.

“Please help me,” he whimpers between hitches in his breath, “ ‘msorry Howard, but what are we gonna do? I can hardly move it hurts so bad.”

That does it. Howard can’t possibly fail his best mate when he looks so vulnerable. He stands abruptly, pulls on his slippers (pajamas will have to do), finds his phone and calls for a cab. Then he returns to crouch next to Vince, who is still trembling with pain and stress. He speaks gently to him, like he would to an aggravated llama. “The cab will be here any minute now. I’ve got to get you downstairs, and we’re going to get you to a doctor. I’ll be right there with you, everything will be fine.” 

Howard moves so gently that one could be forgiven for thinking that Vince was made of spun sugar-glass, a delicate crystalline ornament to be handled with the greatest of care. Slowly as a sloth on Valium, he eases his arms beneath Vince’s body and lifts him in a bridal carry, standing as smoothly as he can. Look at him, Howard Moon, graceful as a gazelle, light as a lemur on his feet, strong as a Russian bear carrying his lady love off to safety— _ ahem _ .

Although he looks like he’s made of  candyfloss and glitter, Vince’s weight is solid in his arms and reminds Howard he ought to get back on the Jazzercise. Not that he intends to make sweeping Vince off his feet a regular habit, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt his chances with the ladies either. Distracted by this train of thought, he stumbles on his way to the stairs and Vince cries out.

“Fucksake, Howard, be careful!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters as he navigates the stairs as carefully as he can. He’s doing his best, he’s trying to make it a smooth trip for Vince, who utters little “ow, ow, ow” sounds under his breath. The minicab is waiting for them, thank Christ, and they rush off to A&E with no further delays.

\--

Later, when Vince is receiving intravenous fluids and his wound has been cleaned and bandaged, the doctor comes in to deliver what feels like a terribly unfeeling lecture with a lot of scary words. Deep partial-thickness burn due to direct prolonged thermal contact secondary to misuse of alcohol. Recovery time a minimum of three weeks. The doctor keeps droning on about the dangers of binge drinking until Howard holds up a hand to interrupt.

“Beg your pardon, but while I’m sure we can all agree that overindulging in spirits is unwise, maybe Vince doesn’t need to hear it at this very moment?”

The doctor raises an imperious eyebrow. “I would argue that due to his injury, there’s no better time for him to hear it. If he weren’t drunk, perhaps he wouldn’t have tried straightening his hair in bed while drowsy—”

“Oi! Don’t talk about me like I ain’t in the room, yeah?” Vince snaps, his eyes furious and lips compressed in a thin line. Howard is certain that the hospital isn’t adequately medicating his pain; he can see sweat shining at his hairline and he still looks quite pale. He reaches over and takes Vince’s hand, which grasps his like a lifeline.

“If we could focus on the care Vince will need at home,” Howard says cautiously, looking sideways to check that’s he’s not triggered his temper again, “we’d be very grateful to get out of your hair and give this bed to someone who needs it.” The doctor sighs like he’s never been more put out in his life and leaves the room. Howard releases Vince’s hand and smooths the edge of the sheet. 

“He’s in a right mood, hey?” Howard says with a cheerfulness he doesn’t feel. The excitement of the evening has worn off and he suddenly remembers that he was woken from his sleep. But Vince looks miserable and he feels that he’s got to keep a stiff upper lip for both of them. “Dunno what he’s on about.”

“Please be quiet Howard,” Vince says tiredly, his eyes looking glassy with emotion and exhaustion. “We both know I was pissed, it doesn’t matter.” They’re both quiet for a long moment, listening to the reassuring beep of the heart monitor.

“Thanks,” Vince finally says. “Thanks for not leaving me.” Howard feels a swelling of emotion in his chest and firmly suppresses it, clearing his throat before attempting to speak. 

“Hey little man, don’t mention it. We’re a team, remember?” His voice is certainly not wavering at all as he reaches out and grasps Vince’s shoulder. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you, and Howard Moon is a man of his word.”

“Course you are.” Vince smiles half-heartedly and goes quiet again. Howard wants very badly to fuss over him like a mother would, to wipe his fevered brow and tuck him in and sing him a lullaby so he can rest. He clenches his hands in his lap and reminds himself that Vince never had a mother do these things for him, and likely wouldn’t understand or appreciate the gesture. 

What he doesn’t know is that Vince is lying there with his eyes closed and his arms folded to keep himself from reaching out to Howard. He’s never had a mother to worry over him, but he certainly would like a cuddle and tonight’s been just wretched. No one in his life has ever made him feel as safe as Howard does. But he’s feeling very sensitive at the moment, and thinks if he reached out for Howard only to hear “don’t touch me” he might actually break down in ugly tears, and he couldn’t possibly handle the rejection when he’s already cried quite enough this evening.

Later a very nice nurse talks them through the roughly six hundred steps of cleaning and dressing the burn will require every day. She gives Vince a tetanus shot (he screws his eyes up and won’t look), hands Howard several bottles of medication to manage his patient’s pain and anxiety, and sends them on their way.

\--

Over the next two days, Howard runs himself ragged trying to anticipate Vince’s every need. He offers Lucozade when Vince complains that water is boring. He insists that Vince eat chicken soup rather than flying saucers and strawberry bootlaces (they still have Jammie Dodgers for tea, he's not a monster). He fetches magazines and fluffs pillows and even moves the TV into their bedroom. 

Vince lies stretched out on his bed like a spoiled prince, accepting everything Howard offers with either a cheery grin or a sulky pout, depending almost entirely on how recently he’s had pain medication. Howard tries very hard to be pleasant when Vince is bad-tempered—it's not his fault he’s hurting (even though it technically, absolutely is 100% his own damn fault).

“Leave me alone, it don’t need changing,” his patient snaps as he approaches with the wound-care kit he assembled. “I’m watching telly.” Howard glances over at the screen, prepared to compromise by leaving off until a commercial break—

“Oh for God’s sake,” he grumbles, “You’re watching Pingu reruns, you’re not missing anything.” He snatches the remote control, turns off the television, and faces Vince with the kind of wary determination a matador has in the bull-fighting ring. He’s trying, despite his frustration, to be quiet and calm in the hopes that Vince will respond in kind. “You’re going to get an infection if we don’t keep cleaning it and changing the bandages. And we’ll have to go back to the hospital. Is that what you want?” 

Quick as you like, Vince shifts from stroppy to sorrowful, gazing up from his languished state with the saddest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Howard’s made of stern stuff, but he can see how a weaker man would be swayed by the picture before him. He steels his will and says firmly, “Let’s change your dressing.”

Vince always keeps his eyes shut tight while Howard’s focused on wound care, or fixed on the ceiling—anything to avoid looking at the ugly burn. He hates hates hates the process of wound care, so he tries to focus on nice things: Gary Numan, that genius belt he thrifted last week, the latest issue of Cheekbone. He wishes he hadn’t tried to straighten his hair when he got back from that club; he’d just been off his tits and thought his fringe could use a touch-up. Then he’d gotten quite tired and had a sleepy and now look where he was.

_ Still _ , he thinks,  _ suppose it could be worse _ . Howard is humming sort of tunelessly as he bends over his work (Vince’s pelvis, really, did he even know how many people would love to be in that position?). His hands are actually quite gentle if Vince could ignore the pain and focus on the way his fingertips smooth the tape down over the fresh bandage. It’s almost nice. Like finding Howard again after being separated in the Jungle Room or in the Forest of Death, there’s a sense of “Well, this isn’t good, but at least we’re together.” He isn’t really sure how Howard does it, being the awkward and sometimes prickly bloke he is, but he always makes Vince feel deep down that things are going to work out for the two of them. 

“All finished,” he announces, startling Vince out of his musing. “Cuppa tea?”

Vince is about to respond in the affirmative when they hear the bang and thump of two sets of feet coming up the stairs.

“Oh, thank Christ!” Vince exclaims, “Naboo’s back, he can fix me!” Howard rolls his eyes and turns to go fetch the shaman.

“Oh yes, Naboo is back,” he repeats sarcastically, “Crisis averted, isn’t it?” Still, he brings Naboo in straight away despite the tiny man’s protests that he’s only just got back, and insists that he do whatever he can to heal Vince.

Naboo and Bollo shuffle into the room behind Howard, and the room erupts into action and noise. Bollo takes one look at Vince lying there and seizes Howard by the neck, shaking him like a doll and bellowing threats of vengeance for hurting his precious flower. Vince could almost laugh at Howard’s misfortune, but he’s turning purple now and he’s slightly worried his friend is about to be murdered by a gorilla.

“Bollo, ease off!” he shouts over the din. “It was just an accident!” It takes several repetitions in this vein as well as Naboo hanging off of Bollo’s arm to get him to drop Howard on the floor. Naboo sends him to put their bags away, rolling his eyes at the sulking gorilla.

Once the bandage is off, Naboo wrinkles his nose at the burn, dusts it liberally with a dull powder that smells of old dirty ice and pronounces his work complete. It’s laughably simple, compared to the past two days.

“You’re sure it won’t give him an infection?” Howard asks again, hovering over Naboo’s shoulder. “It’s just that we’ve been very careful to keep it clean...” He trails off as Naboo looks up at him with disdain.

“Yeah,” Naboo replies simply. “It will scar though, sorry Vince. Little too late to avoid it.” He leaves without waiting for a response, mumbling something under his breath about human medical care. Howard looks back to see Vince gingerly touching his healed burn with a growing smile.

“I’m cured, Howard, it’s genius!” he exclaims, jumping out of bed. “I bet if I start getting ready  now I can still go out tonight.” He’s so busy pulling clothes out of his closet he doesn’t notice when Howard leaves the room. Jumpsuit or funky jacket? Hat or headband? White Cuban boots or the red knee-high platforms? The possibilities and combinations are endless...

When Vince leaves the room two hours later to get in the shower, he sees a tray full of colorful wee cakes on the table. “What’s this?” he inquires. They look beautiful and while he does eat with his eyes, these look too good to ignore and he could use the sugar.

Howard looks up from his copy of  _ The Stranger _ , sitting nonchalantly on the sofa where he certainly hasn’t been ignoring Vince (no sir, he’s not so petty, he’s merely enraptured by Camus). His eyes dart nervously toward the baked goods and then away.

“It’s nothing,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “Nothing out of the ordinary here, nothing whatsoever.” Vince shrugs at that, Howard is well weird sometimes, and turns to leave when Howard clears his throat.

“Actually,” he starts, standing up from the couch and moving shyly into the kitchen, “I made them, erm, for you.” When no response is forthcoming, save for a smile threatening at Vince’s mouth, he continues, “I just thought—since you were ill, and we didn’t know when to expect Naboo—maybe it would lift your spirits? You were so miserable, and I wanted to help. And now that’s over with, and you’ll be on your way out tonight, so I didn’t know what to—”

“You made these for me?” Vince interrupts with a grin. “Aw, cheers Howard.” He steps forward before he can think too hard about it, before Howard can put him off, and squeezes the other man tight around the middle. 

The hug is over before Howard can protest, though he can feel his cheeks warming as Vince steps back again. He masks it by grumbling, “Well, you’d better get a wriggle on if you want to go out tonight. At this rate who knows when you’ll make it out the door.”

Vince bites his lip and glances toward the tiny cakes, thinking of the outfit he finally decided upon after hours of deliberation. It is only a Tuesday and if he goes out tonight the little cakes will almost certainly be gone by the time he gets back, there’s no way  Howard’ll be able to keep them away from an ape and a shaman both stoned out of their minds.

“Maybe I could stay in tonight,” he says casually, shrugging as though it couldn’t possibly make a difference one way or the other. “We could eat your cakes and watch a film. One more night away from the scene won’t hurt nothing.”

Howard couldn’t look more shocked if Vince had slapped him in the face. The corners of his mouth slowly start to turn up and his mustache twitches. “That right?”

“Yeah,” Vince agrees. “Can we have popcorn for dinner?”

“No, you need protein and healthy fats, not empty carbs.”

“Get stuffed, it’s on the GI diet,” he shoots back without heat. “You’ve stuffed me full of enough healthy food in the past two days to last all month.” The friendly back-and-forth continues for hours, warming them both in ways they’re not comfortable expressing aloud.

That evening they do eat popcorn and cakes and if they happen to cuddle a bit during the movie, who’s to say? Certainly no one is there to hear Vince’s happy sigh as his head comes to rest against Howard’s shoulder, nor to see Howard shift closer with a hum of contentment. No one is there as Vince’s eyes slide shut and his breathing even out. When he’s certain the smaller man is asleep, Howard presses a kiss to his hair and snuggles in for some sleep of his own, content that he’s taken good care of his little man.

**Author's Note:**

> That scene from Call of the Yeti is great (for lots of reasons, don't be coy), but every time I watch it I start thinking about what a terrible burn that is and how painful it must have been at the time. So this was my humble attempt to explore that.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, I don't have much in the way of a Boosh beta. Hope you like!


End file.
